What Gives My Son?
by Benjjj
Summary: First ever fic-not a natural writer but inspired by the superb Bread writing I found here. Joey Boswell/Roxy Hartwell (forgive me!) but all from Joey's POV and I will be blowing therelationship up. Never having seen beyond the ep - mid series 4/5 after the 'note', -where Joey tells Grandad he is seeing Roxy again. I've set it from that point- to head AU/non-canon at least.
1. Chapter 1

What gives my son?

"Gerrr offf me!"

A door slammed. A fist slammed the door.

"Ey... c'mon... ler us in, love!"

Pleading and slurring, the voice begged loudly,

"Aw it's not that bad, queen, it's not like I said.."

Joey ground his face against the pillow, willing his eyes to remain shut and hoping against hope his brain would follow suit. He'd only just drifted off and now his ears were being assaulted by Roxy's neighbours, returning to perform their own special midnight version of Punch and Judy. He really could live without the rendition that involved a standing ovation especially for the local constabulary.

This was why he hated staying over at Roxy's flat. Whatever anyone cared to say about his own living arrangements; a single bed, in a brother filled room, in a property with twice as many occupants as bedrooms, in a back to back street with more people than cars, it was a house. When you shut the door at night that was it, separation. The world one side and him the other. And it stayed outside. Unless you wanted to let it in. Beyond of the four-by-two of front door to number 30 Kelsall Street was another universe. If you wanted it to be. Not a flat with a shared entrance hall or a bedsit with a shared bedroom or a penthouse palace where for all the cash you'd spent living to live looking down on the world you could still bump into it when you got in the lift. That was the reason he hated staying at Roxy's place. That, and the other reason . He wouldn't let his mind go there though, not now, not here.

Joey knew Roxy thought he avoided her place because , although venerated on the housing list to the heady heights of a 'bedsit', really it was a half-way house for the recently released from prison or the street and just half one step up from a hostel or a Bed and Breakfast, a grim situation on anyone's terms. One draughty converted living room masquerading as a cooking, sleeping and living area. She'd put some of the money Joey proffered each week towards a sofa bed, so at least now there was an option of kitchen chairs to sit on to while eating . Roxy's wages put food on the table and plugged something near the gap between what the DHSS stumped up and the landlord's asking price. It was a hole, and neither of them would deny that, but that wasn't the reason Joey hated staying at Roxy's place. The problem for Joey remained that even this reason, and all the other reasons that plagued the rational remnants of his brain, couldn't get near the hold on his heart which filled his mind with mush when faced with the reason he always caved and always stayed.

Squeezing his eyes shut again in a desperate to attempt his mind flooding with coherent thought , Joey unclenched the fists his hands had unconsciously formed and felt the reason he stayed, stir. The reason he hadn't thought of an excuse tonight and reminded him why exactly why he agreed as it stretched an arm across the blanket to for him.

Soft skin brushing his ribs, soothing.

Roxy.

This was why he'd stayed.

Why he had trampled over his better judgement in a heartbeat and slammed the brakes on his brain the second it had attempted to send his gob the default excuse 'Oh, okay well tomorrow's fine, yeah..' when Roxy called him to tell him she couldn't get away for dinner this evening. Her mam had swapped shifts and that meant it was her place or nothing. Why he'd ridden an awkward silence and had already brought the takeaway and the wine in his mind before he accepted her offer to come over. He knew he'd be there before he spoke and despite all the misgiving and doubts doing a conga in his stomach, he'd known he'd agreed before he spoke.

Still something in his tone must have let him down a touch though and he kicked himself as Roxy attempted in her most persuasive voice;

"Look, I'll make us something', she added self-consciously, "I can cook y' know."

Joey had experienced a momentary pang of guilt. In the whole of their relationship he couldn't recall that they had ever having eaten a meal together that hadn't been born in a restaurant or very least a takeaway kitchen. What did that say about them? Too much for him to think about now he reminded himself as he pulled himself back to making sure he put her off.

" _I_can even make _vegetarian _taste nice.." She chided him and he ignored the opening, cutting her off swiftly;

"No sweat, I'll be out anyway. And it'll be late."

Promising earnestly, Joey reassured;

I'll go by the Chinese, your usual, my usual. No washing up."

He shed with relief when she mocked him about washing up and he realised he'd won. Panic receding as he revelled in the relief at getting away with it without even getting near having mentioning the real reason he didn't want her to cook a meal.

Pushing his thoughts away, head rooted to the pillow, Joey stretched out an arm to acknowledge her, to let his fingers gently stroke her hair.

When a tiny hand reached back at him to tap his shoulder, Joey's heart stopped on the spot. When it started again it drummed louder than anything the neighbours could manage. He turned to meet the mop of short brown hair and seemingly endless brown eyes blinking back at him. Brown eyes staring right back at him. Questions formed in the darkness between them. Eyes locked ,mirroring fear. Michael blinked first, rubbing his eyes, sleepily. His eyes and everything about him shrinking under Joey's gaze. Recoiling to the far side of the bed, Joey felt his stomach lurch as he put a finger to his lips. '

'Please, God, don't let her wake up', he prayed silently as the brown eyes fixed upon him once again.

Joey let himself catch a breath, his brain finally catching up with the moment to remind him of the salient fact that had kept him in such good stead over the years. Panic really isn't contagious.

"Go back to sleep."

Joey whispered, hoping to land attempt somewhere between gentle and firm enough that it wouldn't induce a mother waking reaction in the four year old. The boy turned in an instant, pulling himself into the blanket and making a cocoon with every last inch of Joey's share of the bed clothes.

'Fair play, son.'

Joey acknowledged the boy in his mind, with an emotion he couldn't place. Allowing himself a moment's relief before glancing over at Roxy's still sleeping form. He'd give it a moment, to be sure that she was as sleeping as soundly as it appeared. Michael hadn't moved a muscle, and while it was highly unlikely he was asleep, Joey felt convinced that the unwelcome possibility that he would do anything to wake his mother had passed.

As he edged off the sofa bed, Joey felt even even more naked as the cold seemed to be emanate from every bare surface, making a beeline for his exposed skin. He moved as lightly as humanly possible whilst trying desperately to fend off the shivers. His attention turning to an attempt to locate items of his clothing. One of the very few negatives experiences he'd encountered on in a life lived in mostly black attire was the difficulty of reacquainting himself with his clothing in the dead of the night. He made a grateful salute to St. Anthony when he spotted his pants and tux trousers re at the foot of the bed. He pulled them on hurriedly, hoping to avoid any even more awkward moments if Michael stirred again.

Joey knew he'd had enough wine, earlier, to feel it but not enough that a pint of water and splash of his face couldn't sort him out enough to make the drive home. He glanced across to the shapes in the bed.

He had to leave, he couldn't stay. Not now.

The white shirt he'd been wearing appeared to have vanished and Joey cursed his inability to remember where he'd taken it off. Too much wine, he convinced himself. Had to be too much wine. Couldn't be any other excuse for failing to locate your kit when we you'd spent your existence in the chasm of chaos that was his bedroom at home. With its very own unique vortex that snatched items of clothing, shoes, razors, aftershave, anything else Joey owned or valued and hadn't been nailed to the floor with speed that left Grandad in the shade. None of that experience was helping was essentially a tidy person but with a kid and a space this small, the room was in effect a rather large wardrobe with items of clothing hanging from any and every available surface.

As herooted in hope, rather than anticipation, through a pile of Roxy's blouses, Joey noticed it. Amidst pastel blouses and pencil skirts, in the inky dark half light of the flat, he couldn't mistake it.

A Liverbird on a pedestal.

The crest that seemed to come life on the wall opposite his bed ,when he was baby lad, and everyone else had fallen asleep and he was still awake guarding the night and keeping him safe. The crest he'd glared a thousand holes into when Yizzel crunched the Jag. The crest that had caused his Dad to appear in their room at midnight so he could give it 'just one last kiss' after the Cup Final. The crest Billy had been smacked for drawing on when he'd first moved into their room from his Mam and Dad's. The crest that Adrian contended had stated the nightmares that gave him that rash. The crest that Jack shad saluted the day their Uncle Cyril had got him on an open top bus to see the end of season trophy parade in town. The crest that had been the only witness to Joey's tears when Edgar disappeared. That crest. On a tiny shirt.

The crest on the genuine number '8' Aldridge Liverpool shirt Joey'd bought for a pinch from a desperate Yizzel and checked carefully for signs of a fake before he gave to Billy when he wanted one for Francesca . It was a football shirt and Joey had known exactly what Julie would say before Billy got to his feet and to confirm that she had indeed, made an almighty fuss about her daughter 'being a girl Billy, if it's taken you four years to notice and not some butch, mud in her hair, larking in the street' girl either. She's _my _daughter Billy Boswell!" That had been that, Billy had cried and Joey had the shirt back in his possession again. He had been tempted to turn it over to Jack to see if he could make a few quid selling it on. Or he 'd thought about giving it to his Mam for Father Dooley to raffle down at the church. By his reckoning a signed Aldridge shirt would have to be worth a discount of at least ten 'Hail Mary's' and an 'Our Father' next time his Mam levered him towards the confessional.

But he hadn't, he'd looked at it too long. Remembered too well what it meant, your first football shirt. So when he'd given Roxy her money, that week, he gave the shirt too. And she'd been so delighted , so made up and Joey knew it was for all the wrong reasons. Joey knew in an instant that he'd undermined resolve, the line he'd forced himself to draw in the sand of that moment , nearly a year ago, when he'd been forced to ask the question he'd never wanted her to answer . He'd known the truth the first time he laid eyes on the boy. The boy with his mam's big brown eyes, washed up on the doorstep of number 30 Kelsall Street, staring back at Joey from the wreckage of Roxy's life. R

Joey perched on the edge of the table and smoothed creases from the shirt between his palms, letting his fingers trace the stitches of the crest, remembering his words.

"It's only money. That's all it can be now."


	2. Chapter 2

***Sorry for such a delay, exams, recovering from exams...have tried to make sure this is tighter but apologies for any fails and that it meanders...a lot! Advance apologies.***

Joey returned the football shirt to its place in the ironing pile and began searching for his shirt. Eyes adjusting to the light, he found his bowtie, slung it round his neck before picking out black socks and noting his shoes on the rug. The solitary table in the flat was besieged under a ton of washing, making the rug the only clear space for them to eat their meal. Joey had kicked off his shoes before he began torturing Roxy with fortune cookies as she'd attempted to unpack their food in near silence. He'd faked ripping the wrapper with his teeth with enough sincerity to grab her attention from the boxes and chopsticks;

"It's bad luck, Joey!" Roxy had hissed at him, voice low but insistent, "Eating the cookies first ... and _I _do not need any more bad luck." She'd raised her hands to the room to underline her point.

"Oh,...I don't know..." Joey'd smirked and held both cookies triumphantly out of her reach. "You got lucky with me and my charms.."

"Oh yeah, your charms.. yeah!" Roxy rolled her eyes, "Forgive me for thinkin' we were in need of fortune cookies for a bit of pseudo psycho babble... your gob's got that covered!"

"You're too right...that Confucious fella..he had nothin' on me." Joey flashed her his most self satisfied smirk, earning himself tickled feet in reply, enabling Roxy to prise the cookie from him and making it a cast iron certainty that between laughing, kissing and spilling noodles, Michael would wake up.

Roxy had gone to him immediately, placating him with a glass of milk and left over cookies. She'd tried to resettle him. Soothing murmurs emanating from the makeshift bedroom Roxy had constructed from an old windbreak and pictures Michael had painted at nursery. Joey polished off the rest of his wine in an attempt to blank them both from his mind. Eventually the room returned to silence, Roxy returned to him and they abandoned the meal for her bed.

Joey spotted his shirt, on the rug beneath Roxy's blouse and grabbed it. Buttoning it quickly, he picked up his jacket and pulled out his pen. Silently cursing as the pen broke out a verse of 'Land Of Hope And Glory', Joey moved swiftly into the hallway. Leave a note or expect a row, he reminded himself as he ran through potential excuses. Telling her he was meeting his dad sounded close enough to believable to make it as half decent lie. He hoped it would also provide enough bait for Roxy to get angry enough about 'running round after the family' that he might get away without an escalation to the next level of row, the one about 'not having the decency to wake up with her'.

He couldn't do that row with her. His family were an old issue and they were like a pair of old heavyweights slugging through the rounds with that one. They both knew where to jab and Joey knew how to weave his way around the punches.

Since he'd starting seeing her again, this time around, the landscape of their fights had shifted, something far less comfortable and uncertain lurked in the corners of their rows.

Roxy made it clear when he challenged her about the note to his mother;

"We need something.. somebody.."

Total desperation in her voice. Vulnerability and honesty. Pure need, voice shaking as she articulated words like bullets, throwing him off completely. Joey had known Roxy though rougher situations. Beaten up by her husband. Pregnant and homeless. A bruised face could be protected; housing could be provided, things that could be healed and things that could be resolved. Hard as it had been for him to remain calm, knowing she'd been so violently assaulted, blows delivered at the hand of a man, a man whose hand she'd taken in marriage. Joey could handle that. His Mam, Aveline and at various points each of his brothers, they'd all cried on him. Joey knew other people and their tears. He knew how to comfort, how to let someone cry without shying away.

The pure need and desperation in Roxy that afternoon in his car, so exposed to him in that moment. He couldn't face that, no matter what he'd dealt with in the past , he couldn't make her face him as she'd said those words.

Joey signed his note, left it on the clothes pile and let the door ease shut behind him.

"Oh, God, why can't he do this in his own house!" Adrian, voice soaring as Joey's heart sunk.

Joey paused as he heard a chair scrape and his younger brother undoubtedly leaping to his feet. He pulled back his front door key, half retrieved from the lock as his tired body took half a second to contemplate and complete a reverse manoeuvre. Whilst Joey made a quiet escape toward the relative sanctuary and sanity of No.28 Kelsall Street, Adrian's ire continued unabated;

"This shirt is my salvation! My muse! "Adrian pontificated loudly, "A shroud enshrining the tumultuous beat of the creative heart."

Joey didn't have to see Adrian to see the montage of accompanying dramatic gestures flash before his eyes as his brother continued;

"When I wear this shirt I feel like a Dali or a Wilde, waiting to etch my media with inspiration." Pausing only for a loud intake of breath, Adrian roared; "And now it's covered in ham salad and mayonnaise!"

Billy slammed something on the kitchen table. Joey hazarded it to be a spoon or at very least his fist;

"Aw ey, Adrian... look it's only the sleeve!" Billy rebutted, uselessly; "Give it'ere.. It'll come off no bother that...besides it's full of poncy flowers, no one 'll notice!"

"Don't you dare go near that shirt with THOSE hands!" Adrian wailed;

" MAAAAM."

Joey pushed the door shut with a tired sigh . Maybe it was his destiny never to acieve any peace when he needed and he should really give it up as dead loss, quit while he was ahead. If he could just idle away a chat with Grandad, it should be just long enough for his Mam to sort the mêlée and there might be an outside chance he'd snag an hour or two of sleep before lunch.

"She's been for me tray, where's me coffee?" Grandad replied to Joey's knock at the door with a familiar riposte;

Jabbing his finger in the direction of No.30, he added;

"I always have a coffee and a rich tea by now."

"Mam'll be along in a minute, Grandad." Joey pacified; "She does your ironing on Wednesdays, so she'll be getting it ready now."

The old man groaned and turned back to his hallway as Joey added hurriedly;

"I've got five minutes, though, so I can have a look at your telly for you, if you like? Joey proffered, coaxing his grandfather; "Jack said you can't get the racing on it?"

"Gone all black and white that channel has!" Grandad complaining loudly, entering his parlour and pointing at the television, "I have enough trouble working out what that idiot McCruick is sayin' as it is without all the bloody jockeys lookin' the same!"

Joey followed him in silent gratitude, "Okay Grandad... "I'll see what we can do."

It took him less than to minute to discover the cable had been knocked out at the back of the television.

"Too bright that now!" The old man huffed pulling himself out of his chair as he added;

I'll have to change to me reading glasses...now where are they?"

His grandfather stormed off to the kitchen and Joey took full advantage of his absence to stretch out on his setee, ever grateful that height provided him a welcome luxury and enabled his feet to comfortably clear the arm rest without touching the furniture.

"She moves everything in this house, I never know where anything is! Nothing can stay put without her polishing, wiping or dusting it." Grandad whined as he returned with his glasses,

"Only 'yer Granny was worse. On washing days, she had the bed sheets off the bed and you'd be in her mangle before you opened your eyes if you weren't careful."

"Yeah, they do that women. It's all about the house." Joey agreed, "They have houses like we have our cars."

"Oi! Get your feet off my setee!" The old man reprimanded sharply;

"You can do that in yer own house."

For a split second, Joey considered pointing out that his shoes were nowhere near contact with sofa but he was too exhausted to care.

"Why are you so tired anyway," his grandfather accused, undeterred, "'aven't you just had yer breakfast?

"Not yet, Grandad, no." Joey sighed.

"'Ow come? Have you been out all night?" Grandad's face lit up; "Hanky panky was it? I thought you were with that Roxy again?"

"I did go to see her, Grandad yes."

"I told you didn't I "Run away as fast your legs 'll carry you , I said"

"You did, Grandad, you did."

"No good 'll come of it . You need to do what I said! His grandfather tapped his hand on the arm of his chair insistently; "Get the hanky panky over with and then you'll see... then you'll know."

"I love her." Joey closed his eyes, sighing as he repeated quietly;

"I love her Grandad. "

"Love? You've said that before that before about this one. But what do you mean? Are you going to mek it proper now? She'd got a young 'un you know, it can't be all hank panky now. Not now she's a mother. They go off that when they become mothers and it's even not yours!"

"I know Grandad." Joey tried not to let his disappointment show. Somehow he'd always held out a hope that his grandfather understood how he felt about Roxy, somehow in a way Joey couldn't be sure of but felt anyway. He felt that feeling slipping away as he added

"I 'm seeing her... and we'll see eh, Grandad... anyway ... here's Mam with your coffee ..."

Nellie Boswell bustled into the parlour, tray laden with two cups of coffee and a plate full of biscuits;

"Oh there you are, Joey!" Relief filling her voice, Nellie instructed her eldest son; "You'll need to do something about our Billy and Adrian, Joey, even our Mongy left his breakfast after listening to those two this morning."

"I'll speak to Billy, Mam," Joey stretched as pulled himself off the settee to face his mother who was busily arranging his Grandad's table with plates and saucers.

"He'll just have to try harder with Julie.."

"Oh and Joey.." His mam gave him a pointed look in the direction of the door and Joey stepped out into Grandad's porch. His mother quietly closed the parlour door before she spoke;

"It's 'All Saints' on Friday, Joey." His mother reminded him, pointedly,

"You know... November... and I'll have to give Father Dooley the family offering at Mass."

Joey automatically reached for his wallet, producing a ten pound note and giving to his mother.

"Thanks, love but it's the Dead List as well." Nellie continued, furtively looking over her shoulder to ensure her father was out of earshot;

"I need you to have a look at it and make sure that everyone from the family is on there. Every year I worry terrified some pool soul will spend another year in a purgatory because I forgot their name off that list. Last year I nearly forgot Mrs Peel's nephew from across the street and he used to be the head altar boy at Holy Name!"

His mother crossed herself furiously before continuing;

"It's in the kitchen cupboard, in an envelope, behind the decanter." Gesturing toward the parlour she added;

"Better not mention it to Grandad,"

"No, no sweat, Mam." Joey assured her, "I'll do it now.

"And Joey, your breakfast is in the microwave. Four minutes."

"Thanks Mam."

Joey flopped into his usual chair in the Boswell kitchen, resting his head in his hands, until the microwave sounded a four minute warning. Between mouthfuls of toast and mushroom, he glanced over his mother's list. He'd done this for ever year he could remember for his mother. Every year she fretted, he checked and the family list resided with every other offered at each Mass throughout November.

"Granny, Uncle Cyril, Uncle Charlie, Auntie Flo..."

As the list pushed on into people Joey could vaguely recollect ever being mentioned ,he turned over the paper and recognised a name

'Mrs O'Brien X3.'

Tommy O'Brien's mother? She lived at No.43 and he'd seen her last week when he parked his car. What did his mam mean 'X 3'?

Tommy O'Brien was in the year above Joey at school. They'd played out together a lot as kids and their Mams were always in each other's houses. Tommy became closer to Jack and Adrian as they grew up but Joey remembered him being around their house, a permanent fixture when they were growing up. It came back to him. Tommy's mam lost three babies before they were born.

Each of Mrs O'Brien's miscarriages had happened when his Mam had been pregnant. He remembered her coming over to sit with them when his mother went into labour with Aveline. Freddie's booming voice waking him up in the middle of the night with drunken bellowing about the most 'beautiful girl on earth'. But when he came flying down the stairs to celebrate with his Dad, Joey found his father with his arms around Mrs O'Brien, smoothing her hair, comforting her;

"Don't worry, son, babies makes us all feel like crying." His Dad had reassured him; "Go back up and I'll come and see you in a bit."

Joey had waited at the top of the stairs, his father's soft words barely audible;

"It's okay love, you're bound to feel it."

Between sobs ,Joey heard Mrs O'Brien saying over and over; "I'm so sorry Freddie."

"Don't you worry about it," His father gently cradling her; "Does you good to get it off your chest. Nellie feels for you too...if there's anything we could do sweetheart."

Joeynever really thought on about it since, most men wouldn't he supposed. Losing a baby before it was born. Then Roxy said she'd lost her baby. Stan's child. Michael's brother or sister. He'd thought of it then and how she'd coped. How she must have felt when the baby was due. Mrs O'Brien sobbing on his Dad. The baby's birthday every year marking out a life that would never be lived.

Joey picked up his mother's pen and added 'X 1' to the bottom of the list, sealed the envelope and headed upstairs.

"And Grandad complains about Mam hiding stuff.." Joey cursed, knowing one of his brothers had taken advantage of his absence to relieve his bed of a silk and duck down deluxe pillow.

He reclaimed his pillow from beneath two, rescuing it from the clutches of a half eaten Mars bar and the tangle of a football shirt. The Boswell family trophy shirt. Dalglish '7' emblazoned across the shoulders, a 1977 European Cup Winners LFC shirt Freddie bought them for Christmas. Stashed under Billy's pillow.

"Hand ball, ref! Defo off his arm, ref!"

Voices flooded Joey's head...

Jack turning increasing shades of purple, in makeshift goal, arms aloft in despair;

"Blow that bloody whistle, Adrian! He's NEVER nor' handled that!"

Billy chasing off up the street to claim the ball and his goal.

Well, nearly his goal. Joey had volleyed with enough power behind the shot that even had Jack had struggled to get a strong enough hand to the ball. Jack's misery compounded Billy charged towards the ball and shouldered it off his arm and beyond him into the goal

"Now Jack! "Adrian's finest patronising tone," I'm minded to say that I can't claim I saw him handle and the benefit of the time doubt must be with the attacker."

"What's he gorra do? A Maradonna and punch it in the net t!" Jack's fury, "I am never playing with 'im in the middle again. He's like Jimmy 'Bloody' Greaves and he can't see a foul or blow up for anythin'. "

Adrian removing the whistle, from around his neck, all dramatic and deliberate poise. They always borrowed Aveline's whistle and preserved family tradition, ensuring that no matter how loud the cries, refereeing decisions would always be heard.

"Aw, fair play, Jack, Adrian's doin' his best." His attempts to talk Jack around, "And who else is gonna ref ey? Me? Or 'im?"

Gesturing towards Billy who was running celebratory circles, ball held high,

Jack's answer, begrudging silence, Adrian's arms smugly folded.

His best effort to smooth it over;

"You said you didn't you weren't having me, couldn't trust me and it's taken him two years to get his head round headers and volleys. S' always been me and Billy...and you get the ref. Can't say fairer."

He'd done his best to bring Jack round but nothing could hide the tusks and the trunk of an elephant neither could move from the conversation, it carried a far greater weight than even Joey's finest persuading skills could outmanoeuvre.

Football wasn't the same since their Dad left.

The football came out from under the bed less often these days. It may have felt like just another childhood pastime, a rite of passage passing through. Billy found friends his own age to play out with, Jack's stature meant he was getting asked to play in goal for the Railway Belle pub side. Adrian had gone the other way, more interested in emulating Shakespeare than Shankley and Joey discovered he didn't need to run about getting elbowed and showing off his eye for goal to score himself girlfriends. It would have felt like nature doing it's thing if there hadn't been so many Kelsall Street cup finals to flash back at him whenever one of this brothers asked 'who's up for a knockabout while Mam getting dinner on?".

They took turns to ask now, but back in the old days Freddie had been the prime mover. Telling their Mam it would get them an appetite and spiriting the ball into the middle of the street. Freddie acquired the 'Dalglish' shirt, who devised and policed the 'winner keeps shirt as trophy' rule. Freddie who cajoled the whistle from Aveline's neck, refereed contentious decisions, managed team tactics, providing poetic prose for match commentaries, fetching wet sponges for genuine injuries, pouring a torrent of 'Ger up yer soft lad!' on the feigned ones. Joey learned the game and loved the game through his Dad.

Mam on the touchline on Sunday mornings. She would take them to the rec after Mass to see Freddie banish a hangover with a hatrick for the Mucky Duck. His Dad taught him the art of being a striker early on, but Joey knew in all honesty Freddie simply honed thee eye for goal he had passed on to his eldest son. Natural talent. The first of many times his father had used those words to him.

"Get yer' self up front, lad. You don't want to play at the back, gettin' yer nose broke and shoved in the back of the net with the ball each week. Natural talent, son, natural talent."

Freddie moulded all of them. Jack's physique made him a perfect goal keeper. Billy could run all day but neither defend nor score so he was a winger, out where he couldn't do least damage. Adrian played at the back because his tendency to jump out of a tackle was more than adequately redressed by Jack's seeming immunity to pain or injury.

Joey was totally lost in his memories until Jack kicked a stray can at him, as he picked up his jacket, pulled him back to the here and now

His brother walked back up the street; shoulders slumped as he trudged past and into No.30. Billy repeating for the umpteenth time in delight;

"It's our shirt Joey."

Joey snapped from his thoughts as Billy closed in on him.

"What d'y'mean it's 'our shirt Joey!" Adrian pulled the notepad from his back pocket which he'd been using to keep score. Clearing his throat as he announced with pride;

"The match statistics show clearly show Joey scored three with one assist. The shirt is the.."

Joey picked up the shirt and handed it to Billy.

"All yours, sunshine ... ey.. but don't be wearin' it to school, soft head."

"Aw thanks, Joey."

Joey couldn't remember another 'cup final' game since that day and Billy had retained the trophy shirt.

When he thought about missing his father it was never in the places Joey felt he was supposed to that he'd feel Freddie's absence most. It was never so much that Joey needed his father, that he lacked a role model or self confidence or the myriad of other new fangled psychosocial disorders with which politicians claimed 'lads without dads' these days were supposed to be afflicted. He wanted his Dad, he loved him. He missed his Freddie for all the moments that didn't happen with him, things which would have happened if he'd been around to make them rather than feeling a loss in the moments that did.

Climbing into his own bed, Joey stretched out into his own pillow, mind still moving, refusing to relax. Some clichés were overused but it didn't make them less true, sometimes it is what you'll never have that you'll miss. Michael would never have a father and the thought ricocheted around his head until Joey finally found sleep.


End file.
